The Short Victorious Prex
Direx Board Room - Level 200 - Authority Headquarters The DIREX Board Room has undergone quite a transition in recent days. The most striking renovation is the installation of a huge window all along one wall, seamless panels of transparisteel making the room secure and safe for its occupants. The old Board table has been removed and received quite an upgrade, this one a large, monolithic slab of dark polished stone. A variety of custom-made chairs encircle the table, each one marked with an engraved nameplate in honor of its occupant. The head of the table belongs to Qwynt, the Prex, who has had a taller-than-normal seat installed for himself. This rare indulgence is merely to support his bad back, though the CSA rumor mill has overblown this, as usual, into stories of a throne and so on. Outside, in the antechamber, a large waste bin marked 'Amalgamated Waste' contains the renovation scrap -- and no doubt tons of evidence related to the lengthy celebratory gathering hosted by the effulgent new Prex in the last few days. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Holoterm Unit -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Jabs => Beatrix => Qwynt Obvious exits: ut leads to Direx Antechamber - Level 200 - Authority Headquarters. The emergency meeting has thrown Qwynt into a flurry of activity. He has layered back up plans over back up plans, but most of that has been for naught, as the Board members are now most assuredly arriving. The Toydarian flits around the DIREX Board Room, having arrived an hour ago, making final arrangements. He has put out materials at each members' place, and arranged and rearranged them repeatedly. He has placed a thin glass of water at each being's place, and now hovers at Smitherbodkins's place, furtively stirring the perfectly clear water, lowering himself to squint at it, and then stirring some more. This DIREX meeting does not have the same festive flair that the last one did. There is no cocktail reception or the question of who the next Prex will be. The only question on most people's lips is whether the board will vote to oust Qwynt from the Prex position or not. There seems to be support on both sides. Miranda Jabs, rarely one to gossip, arrives early (as usual) and pauses as she steps into the newly remodeled conference room. What could be a sigh, of disdain, of relief, or just of finally arriving at the much talked about meeting, escapes her. Thank god the throne was gone. "Mr. Qwynt," she says as she enters. "A delight to see you again." She circles the table to her usual spot, not because of assigned seating but due to years of tradition. It is right by where Qwynt is hovering. Just as she is about to sink into the chair, she notices the words "The Most Esteemed Bodkins Antiquities" written on it in elegant script. Her nose wrinkles in distaste and she circles the room, looking for her own. She passes, "The Most Profitable NovaCom Medical" and "The Most Respected Starlight Studios" before coming across "The Sauciest Foxtech Inc." She doesn't like where it is. "I would like to move my chair to that one. That is where I sit and I sit there for a reason. I do not like this spot. It is too far." It is not really a request. This time, Smitherbodkins arrives directly on the hour. Once again, he's alone; he rarely brings any sort of entourage to these meetings, as those who have served on the board with him well know. He enters through the doors to the anteroom chamber, just after the ExO with his rather larger retinue. As the ExO moves to take his place and his retainers follow suit, Smitherbodkins pauses on the threshold, lingering there for just a moment, surveying those who have already arrived, the new decor, and the interesting use of place cards to denote the seats that are usually simply just considered 'spoken for.' He begins to walk toward his, a smile on his face; and, perhaps surprisingly, it looks quite genuine. He nods to both Jabs and Qwynt, removing his hat and placing it next to the glass that the Prex has so generously lain out for him. "Ms. Jabs. Most Esteemed Prex." He takes his seat, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of him, waiting for the proceedings to begin. All the expected beings have appeared, save one: the newest addition to their exclusive coterie, who shall, today, take for the very first time the seat she has purchased at such colossal expense: Beatrix Mara, uncrowned queen of a dead planet, habitual recluse seldom seen outside her own space station, and noted cat fancier. When she arrives, it is with a bang -- provided by the albino Trandoshans who throw open the doors from the antechamber with such gleeful force that they bang against the intervening wall several times before settling down. Thus the first glimpse (most of) those present have of the lady's face includes a withering expression directed at her zealous bodyguards, who are, with a snap of her long white fingers, ordered to make themselves scarce. She is a walking waterfall of silk, in layer upon layer of blue-violet, silver, and black, accented with unexpected moments of red. A hundred or so tiny silver bells, tuned to different notes which ring out in a subtle musical cascade, are stitched onto the sash which has the responsibility of binding all these loose, flowing garments to her tall, slender figure; they have cousins in the thick rope of white hair which falls down her back almost to the floor. Her feet are bare, in simple thongs of padded black silk, the bases of which consist of tapering pillars adding a further ten or twelve inches to her queenly height. They are transparent, these peculiar foot-platforms, and each is home to a population of Kysivian firebugs in shades matching the wearer's attire, fluttering and flickering, giving off sudden sparks of coloured light. She walks with languid, deliberate steps, each ankle turning almost in a half-circle as she lifts a bulky, beautiful shoe and sets it down again at an angle in front of the other. She has no need to look down to see that her path is clear; that duty is delegated to the rosy-pink Twi'lek handmaidens, apparently twins, who accompany her on either side, their voluptuous figures concealed only by a few flimsy bits of jerba leather and Lashaa silk apiece. They are so intent upon her progress and her swaying draperies that she has naught to do but proceed as she wishes, while one of them holds her left hand to lend support, and the other has charge of the silvery leash of her direcat. Alas, this picturesque multi-cultural tableau lasts only for the few seconds it takes the direcat to notice that one of her Special Friends is in the room. Then she slips her collar and bounds across to Smitherbodkins, like a lightning strike the effect of which is to knock the dapper Corellian out of his chair and bury him beneath a pile of stripey fur. Caught by a flailing paw, his silk hat rolls, unnoticed, under the table. A silver-painted GY-I information analysis droid sticks his head timidly round the door. "Oh, dear, oh, dear!" he half-sobs. "Oh! Miranda," Qwynt sings with false alacrity. He flies to her, keeping a respectful distance, and pantomimes giving her an air kiss on each cheek, except from too far away. He studies the chair arrangement, frowning. "Please, please. You'll make yourself comfortable, eh, of course." Despite this heavily lacquered version of G.S. Qwynt VIII, he can nonetheless be heard swearing darkly beneath his breath. Qwynt hardly notices the ExO, which is more or less typical of the new Prex's short tenure in office. His jaundiced eye lands squarely on Smitherbodkins, though, and he watches his each and every move. Qwynt seems genuinely caught off guard at Smitherbodkins's pleasantries, and it takes him a moment to clear his throat, catch his breath, and give a little wave to the Corellian. The assault of the Board room by Beatrix startles the on-edge Prex terribly. Qwynt's hand immediately dives inside his coat, wherein he half-draws a tiny holdout blaster, comically buzzing to the cover of his chair back. His terror wanes but his awe waxes, and he holsters his weapon. His mouth is slack at Beatrix, at her queenly arrival and bearing, and he gives her a slow nod of appreciation. This was a being with style. And she had twi'leks. The cat is a matter of concern, but a lesser matter at the moment. "Greetings everybeing," Qwynt mumbles, squaring himself to the room. "Let's go ahead and get started, if everyone can find their places. We've got a lengthy agenda! I hope ah-we get through it all in one meeting..." Certainly, the stack of materials at each members place is revealed to be a 14-page agenda, ranging from 'create strategic plan,' to 'in depth financial review of sector,' and perhaps most time consuming of all: 'proposed new menu for DIREX cafeteria.' Finally, at the end of the lengthy document is the opportunity for new business. "Let's see then," Qwynt rasps, shuffling through his papers wildly. "Meeting called to order, uhh..." Miranda returns the kissy kissy gestures with the repugnant Toydarian, able to handle it mostly because the creature has stayed several feet away. "Thank you, your Prexness. I knew you would understand." Let's not forget who is in charge here. She is in the process of dragging her chair around the table to where she usually sits when Beatrix makes her entrance. A new board member, interesting. And then the direcat comes in. Miranda stops short, wrinkling her nose somewhat. She is allergic to the common cat. She can only assume it will be much worse with an enormous one. But for a moment the cat warms her heart as it knocks Smitherbodkins out of the chair she wants. She takes the opportunity to swoop in, position her chair with a quick, "There was a mistake. I sit here." She then sits down at her seat. The verpine slave she brought with her scurries up beside her and takes the seat for Bodkins Antiquities, putting it at the other end of the table. Miranda begins to shuffle through the papers in front of her, taking note of the strange agenda. This was going to be a long meeting The gentleman barely has time to register the arrival of the newest member of the illustrious board before he's bowled over by the enormous direcat once more. Thank goodness that this room was carpeted, at least, if thinly; it allows him some protection from the fall. Astonishingly, for all his usual propriety, etiquette, and formality to the point of snobbery, he doesn't seem to mind this friendly attack. Instead, he lets out a hearty laugh, allowing the gorgeous beast to do with him as it will. He scratches her behind an ear, which elicits a loud rumbling from her that can only be interpreted as a purr raised by several orders of magnitude. There is business to attend to, though, and after another moment, Smitherbodkins attempts to rise. The direcat, sensing his movements, gives a quiet whine and one last nuzzle against his hand before padding back to her mistress. As he finds his previous seat taken, Smitherbodkins reaches forward to remove his glass, taking it with him to the other end of the table. After all, he knows Miranda's distaste for germs, and though he hasn't yet sipped from the glass, it's hard to know just how far that distaste extends. Sitting down, he reaches forward to grasp an agenda and flip it open to the first page. "Esteemed Prex," Smitherbodkins says, raising one gloved finger, "Before we begin, I wish to be recognized to speak for a moment. If it is amenable to all members, of course." His courtesy is back in full force, and he waits quietly to be recognized, or not, his gaze never wavering from the Prex. Beatrix looks with an infinitely tolerant eye upon her cat's effusive greetings for Smitherbodkins; she follows them with a nod of acknowledgment for the Corellian, once he is upright again. He is clearly a good sport, and she makes a mental note to contribute to his tailoring and drycleaning bills, which have surely skyrocketed since he made her acquaintance. Her eye lingers also on little Miranda Jabs, known to her by repute, and evidently just as quick off the mark as rumour would have it. A square pouffe, upholstered in quilted black silk and equipped with an anti-grav device that causes it to hover at just the right height in relation to the table, was delivered earlier in the day by lackeys of the Marani semi-queen; she makes her ponderous, graceful way to it, attended by her retinue and her now-obedient pet. The placecard set before it reads 'Vivacious Viridis Incorporated'. She would quirk an eyebrow at this apt description, if hers weren't painted on well above the relevant muscles. Her Twi'lek handmaidens, really most *attractive* young ladies, with splendid long lekku, hold her hands as she steps up out of her firebug shoes and up onto the silken pouffe. Then she sinks to her knees with a sigh of expensive fabric, and a chiming of bells, the pink Twi'lek girls arranging her garments about her and lustrous white hair in a coil at her side before backing away and leaving the field to the worried silver droid, who has at last pulled himself together sufficiently to enter the board-room. The direcat sits *underneath* her mistress. Isn't anti-grav wonderful? Hands folded calmly in her lap, Beatrix Mara utters a simple, gracious greeting: "Gentlebeings, good day to you all." That's it. No apologies for being the last to arrive, no gushing about what a pleasure it is to be here. The sound of Smitherbodkins's voice forces Qwynt's gaze to narrow to a slit, his shrewd business skillset coping mightily to adapt to the gentlemanly arts of politics. The Toydarian looks down, and it requires all his visual effort, to realize that he is gripping the handle of his golden gavel so tight that his bony knuckles are showing. The instrument of order hovers in midair for a second above the heavy table. Fortunes and futures may be made with the resounding strike of this gavel. Qwynt's gaze lands on Jabs, on the otherworldly visage of Beatrix, and he shakes his head. His look softens a touch, and he puts the gavel back down in place carefully, sighing heavily. "The ah, gentleman, from Corellia has the floor. Briefly." Qwynt's other hand moves to rest casually inside his jacket, gripping loosely the handle of his hidden blaster. Miranda Jabs looks somewhat startled as the Corellian takes her water glass. He does not replace it with another. No matter, she never drinks from any glass unless the slave has tasted it first, and she has left him outside. She gives Qwynt a dazzling smile and looks towards Smitherbodkins, waiting for him to speak. Then she sneezes. As soon as he's acknowledged, Smitherbodkins stands. His lack of hat makes him no less elegant; in fact, it fits with his rather somber expression, quite different from his usual jovial smile. "Fellow board members," he begins, and his deep voice takes on an almost sorrowful timbre as his hands spread wide, encompassing the room. "I know you are all aware of the events of the recent weeks that have shrouded the board in iniquity." So sure is he of their knowledge of these events that he does not expound upon them. He merely continues, "I have acted rashly. I have called the integrity of the Prex into question, destabilizing our position. Shares have plummeted, investors have panicked, media has speculated." He shakes his head, looking around the room and meeting each member's gaze, including the Prex who has borne the brunt of his recent less-than-cordial behavior. "No matter what my personal feelings about any slight, real or imagined, I should never have allowed it to taint the board in such a manner. I had forgotten this, but no more." He pauses, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "No apology that I can offer will suffice. My honor has been stained. I therefore announce my intention to retire from the Direx board at the end of this quarter." Which just happens to be in three standard days. Beatrix Mara allows none of her astonishment to leak into her face, which might have been carved from alabaster, so still it is. This is a contingency she had not foreseen. How, then, to turn it to her advantage? It is too soon to speak -- she has had only moments to study the persons in this room face to face, whereas they, some of them, have had years... Smitherbodkins's prattling seems otherworldly, as much as Beatrix's stately entrance and impeccable dress and pomp. Qwynt feels faint, flushed, and shakes his head as if to clear his hearing. What was he saying? Where is this going? Qwynt's first reaction when he finally hears his opponent is to crack a sly smile, and chuckle. His slightly less thought out reaction is to leave his blaster pistol inside his coat and not attempt to kill Smitherbodkins. The Toydarian stands slowly at his seat, pulls his too-tight vest down slightly, and likewise prepares to address the Board. He lifts both hands and brings his palm together. This continues in what may be the galaxy's most awkward and ostentatious 'slow clap' in the history of slow claps. "Let's hear it for Smitherbodkins," the Prex announces, nodding enthusiastically at Jabs, Beatrix, and the others, as if to rouse their support. "Well done, then, well done. We'll miss you." Qwynt chuckles again in the midsts of his clap and points a little blaster made of his finger and thumb at Smitherbodkins, firing it playfully with a wink and another chuckle. The ExO of the Direx board lets out a whispery laugh that turns into a cough. He coughs for a few moments more, hiding his mouth behind a large white handkerchief, until he's composed himself again. By his laugh, and the nonchalance with which he greets this announcement, it's clear he may have suspected it. "Well, well," he says in his trademark quavering voice (though the others on the board have come to know that it hides an iron will), "I believe that this calls for a toast. To Lord Smitherbodkins. His time on the Direx Board has been marked with distinction, despite the recent...unpleasantries. Thank you for your service, and may Bodkins Antiquities continue to be as profitable to the CSA as it has been for generations." He reaches forward to take a glass; interestingly enough, not the glass set for him, but the glass of the gentleman siting next to him. Smitherbodkins. The gentleman raises an eyebrow, but says nothing; after all, it would be suicide to correct the highest-ranking member of the board. The ExO lifts the glass, waiting for the others in the room to join him, then takes a sip. Suddenly, he begins to cough once more. His retinue think nothing of it; after all, he's coughed his way through more meetings than they care to count. However, as the spree goes on, some begin to look disconcerted. One claps him on the back, which only causes him to further hack and wheeze. His face takes on a curious cast; pale, first, then a bluish tinge. He stands up, clutching at his throat, and his eyes find Qwynt's, though surely that was just a coincidence. Finally, with one long last, strangled gasp, he falls forward against the table with a loud thud. He does not stir. In the brief silence which follows, Beatrix Mara raises the smallest finger of her left hand, and the prodigiously long blue-lacquered nail at the end of it. Her silver GY-I droid leans in obligingly (it has to go up on tip-toes to do so) to listen to the words which hover upon her next exhalation. It is a slightly modified model, with the hand of a personal chef droid, one finger of which always bears a little white thimble-like cover. It removes this cover now, and sticks its finger, equipped with a tastebud sensor several thousand times more sensitive than that of a human, into the glass of water set at its mistress's place. After taking detailed readings, it re-thimbles its finger, and bows to her. "It is safe to drink, Your Highness," it pronounces. The color in Qwynt's face drains, too, but not in the same way as the ExO's. In the excitement of the meeting preparation, he had almost forgotten about the thing with the water. The Toydarian's mind races with possibilities, and he looks to Smitherbodkins, trying to frame the words. What have you done? he tests first, just on his lips, without saying it, but to the observers in the room he is merely working his jaw silently. Qwynt finally finds his voice and gruffly demands order -- though at the moment there is only shock and disbelief -- whilst beating the table with his gavel senselessly. "I declare, a, uh, recess! Someone call emergency services! Blast you all, do I have to do everything? Give the ExO some room! Look in his coat pocket for his medication..." Qwynt takes to the air, finding a comlink to hold as a prop in his fist. "I had better call his wife, she'll want to be here..." Qwynt hopes the ExO is married, but in any event he's keying the call button of the device, and making his way to the exit of the room to be able to speak with the assumed wife in private. The Toydarian chances one quick look over his shoulder, his composure hanging by a thread. Miranda Jabs looks irritated at the hacking cough of the ExO. When would he get that treated? But as it goes on, it becomes impossible to conduct business, its raspy hacking raising her hackles due to its horrible noise as much as the thought of the germs he must be expelling. But as he falls forward dead on the table, she stands up. "No one leave the room!" she exclaims, signaling the Verpine standing near the door to block it. Taking charge, as it appears Qwynt is trying to leave the room, she demands, "Mr. Smitherbodkins, summon the medics." She stumbles for a second, trying to decide what to call Beatrix. "You, have your droid test this water. Aurelia, security. No press." She then sits down and supervises to make sure that everyone does as she says. Supervising is her best part. "Someone in this room may be...a murderer!" Smitherbodkins is well used to the ExO's fits of coughing, and like the others, is much to polite and attached to his own skin to comment. It soon becomes clear, though, that this is not an ordinary fit. He looks from the fallen man to the Toydarian, just in time to catch the movement of the creature's lips. His eyes widen in shock, and also, perhaps, horror. After all, it was his glass that the Prex drank from, and who was so assiduously setting out the glasses before the meeting? Miranda's cry brings him back to his senses, and he dashes to the wall, frantically pressing the button for the hospital floor. "Send someone up here right away!" he booms into the microphone, "the ExO needs assistance!" His task performed, Smitherbodkins rushes to the fallen leader, turning him over and beginning to loosen his collar, but it's a futile gesture; the man's eyes do not open, and his jaw hangs slack, a bit of spittle dribbling from it. His visage is shrunken, much less imposing now; death makes equals of us all. The orders streaming forth from Miranda Jabs amuse Beatrix more than anything else, for she is not at all accustomed to being addressed as 'you', or to being commanded in that brusque, mannish manner. But under the circumstances, the suggestion seems a sound one; and with another blue-lacquered flick she sends her modified droid forth to inspect the late ExO's beverage. Beyond that -- other people's reactions to crisis can be tremendously *revealing*, and so she is content to adopt a watching brief. Not so the direcat resting beneath her hovering pouffe, whose leash and collar never were put back on, were they. Not that they seemed to do much good the first time... And now, well, it would be too much to expect any high-spirited, blue-blooded feline to resist the fluttering wings of a creature less than half her size. Powerful muscles rippling, toothy grin on full display, the striped direcat explodes out from underneath her mistress's seat, soars through the air toward Qwynt, and commences to bat the diminutive airborne Prex around and about the room with her paws. What a jolly game for an overgrown kitten! If there's one thing that working in the CSA has given Qwynt, aside from an enormous mound of illegally gained credits, it's access to whole new markets of interesting toys and items. His tiny prototype holdout blaster, courtesy of a Merr-Sonn sponsorship deal, appears in full view this time, and its high-pitched sound pierces the air, twice as his finger works the trigger, Qwynt's tongue out to the side as he aims. Miranda's verpine falls backward, its limbs reflexively taking on the insectoid death pose. Two smoking blaster wounds ooze ochre fluid from the verpine's innards. Qwynt turns, crazed look on his face, waving his blaster wildly. He takes a wild shot at the other DIREX Board members, but really, Qwynt is a terrible shot, only having gotten lucky with the verpine at point blank range. Then again, it is obviously not Qwynt's first time murdering someone. He is completely free, or so it seems, and completely oblivious to being assaulted in midair by an enormous cat! The very lightweight Toydarian tumbles in the air, knocked into the door through which he plans to escape, and grunts out a loud OOF. His blaster clatters to the ground and the Toydarian, in his slow thinking, must imagine that he's been shot or tackled, rather than the victim of a playful cat. "Stang blast!" the Prex yells, holding up his fists to protect his face, diving to avoid one paw and then taking another full on the head. "Agh!" He half stumbles, half flies through the large doors, and fights with the door handle to get it closed enough to block the demonic feline. Breathing ragged, he points. Almost out. "Call Esp... call Espos. Smitherbodkins is... killing!... the Board members!" he screeches to whomever. Jabs's verpine falls to the ground, bleeding. Likely dead. "Blast!" she exclaims, "That one cost me a fortune." There doesn't seem to be any emotional attachment to the fallen verpine, or even about the fallen Exo. She waits as the medics and security are called, but sometimes getting up to the 200th floor can take a while, even on the express elevator. As Qwynt is intercepted by the feline, she almost laughs, but then remembers her itchy eyes. Qwynt's last statement is heard, but the truth of it will be determined in the investigation. No one is innocent! The blaster shots that ring out in the room cause Smitherbodkins to duck down, pulling the ExO down with him, as if he still thinks that he might be able to save the man. Qwynt's statement is not lost on him, but it's so ridiculous that he doesn't even respond to it. As the direcat begins to bat the Toydarian around like a very large moth, the gentleman starts something that looks vaguely like CPR, if CPR was being performed by someone who knew nothing about CPR. At least, he does the chest compressions. He'd be a fool to attempt the rescue breaths right now. The Marani lady inclines her elegant figure in Jabs's direction. "Never mind, dear," she remarks with cheerful solicitude. "It wasn't very attractive, was it, with that broken antennae. I'm sure you'll be able to find a new one much more pleasing to look upon." Then she raises her voice slightly, calling to her four-legged co-conspirator. "Mila! Bring him here, there's a good girl." But the direcat, whose feeding schedule was disturbed by the rescheduling of this meeting, has a few thoughts of her own when it comes to the disposition of small flying things. She sinks her teeth into Qwynt's frail, stunted little leg, obviously planning to make a snack of him. But the Prex tastes so abominably filthy that she spits him out again. Ugh! Faugh! Making disgruntled noises in her throat, she retreats back to her mama's shadow to curl up and groom her whiskers. Qwynt indeed tastes awful, a combination of salt, glitterstim, and loathing. He screams a long warbling scream, sincerely distressed as his leg is bitten, half frozen in some weird prey response. He is released and pulls free, oozing from his own wounds now, nerve endings aflame. He will carry these scars with him for a long time. The final pulling motion of the cat also frees some literal thread from the bottom of Qwynt's jacket, and an explosion of credits spray from his clothes as he jerks away. The whole thing is like a pleasant explosion of confetti, except made of credits, and these credit chips are each worth 100,000. The whole pile is an enormous fortune, but a pittance to the corporate titans in this room. Determinedly, Qwynt bursts through the antechamber, past a pair of Amalgamated Waste interns, snarling as he hits the emergency exit shaft door at full speed. He is still wearing his monocle. "Outta the way!" Time to dig deep into the playbook and activate one of those back up plans. As the emergency shaft door clangs shut with a hollow thud, it leaves the remainder of the corporate murderers and thieves alone with themselves. The only thing that remains of Qwynt is a pile of dirty money and a long streak of blue blood across the polished floor. Some of the lesser members of the Direx Board, still trying to earn enough credits to pay for a full membership, scrabble for the credits on the floor. As for herself, Miranda Jabs is above it. Just as Qwynt leaps in the escape shaft and is gone, security and medical burst out of the main lift. "Took you long enough! I don't suppose you left anyone by the escape hatch did you? No? Of course not. Well, fine, here you are. We were just about to determine if the water is poisoned." She rolls her eyes. It is so hard to find good help these days. Security splits up, some staying in the room and some taking the lift back down to try to trail Qwynt. Medical also splits between the verpine and the fallen ExO. Everything was coming into order again. "You, please inform cleaning that this whole floor will need to be scrubbed and disinfected, immediately," she directs one of the security guards. Then she turns to the table. "Well, now that that is taken care of, I motion for a vote for a new Exo. Nominations? Once the medical staff come in, it's clear that Smitherbodkins' rather haphazard attempts at lifesaving are no longer needed, if they ever were. He stands, brushing himself off, and says, his naturally booming voice carrying easily over the din of the room, "I nominate Miranda Jabs! She has been the one to keep her head in this time of trial, despite the tragic loss of her Verpine servant." 'Servant' is perhaps a bit of a misnomer, but now is hardly the time to quibble about vocabulary and worker's rights. "Is the motion seconded?" Dignity, always dignity -- the unofficial motto of House Cassimar, and seldom has one of its scions been so sorely tempted to betray it. The corpses of strangers strewn about the room, Mila's determined pursuit of her luncheon and then her fastidious rejection of it, the accusations and the shots flying through the air as wildly as the Prex himself... No one is paying any attention to her at all, or so it seems, and she bares her gleaming black teeth in a burst of silent laughter. They'd told her the Direx Board was composed of original personalities. They'd told her her social horizons would be sure to expand once she became a member. Oh, how beautifully true. She turns slanting eyes, the irises turned a mottled lavender-blue, upon Jabs, then Smitherbodkins, then Jabs. What an intriguing little person. And quite right, too, to move things along. Business is business; nothing may be permitted to impede business; forever and ever, amen. Across the room her droid's special finger has turned a psychedelic green. The CSA medical team is very efficient and quickly declares both victims deceased. Security takes over at that point, asking all kinds of questions and taking scrapings from various surfaces. One security officer even tries to confiscate the droid that has done the poison measurements. The bright green of its indicator strip can only mean one thing! Miranda used to use that droid often, until she learned that there were 10 very rare poisons it could not detect. That is when she made her verpine be her taster. It had been quite some time since one had been killed _not_ because of poison. "Please, we are trying to do business and are almost done. Just, stand back," she instructs the swarm of guards. More keep pouring out of the elevators as she speaks. "You will have your chance to talk to everyone in a few minutes." Several Direx members shout to second the motion, and a few more names are carried onto the ballot. "Very well," Miranda says, looking over the list. "A vote has been posted. One week for ballots." She finds Qwynt's dropped gavel and bangs it. Smitherbodkins looks inordinately pleased for someone who's just witnessed two deaths, one near-death, and tendered his resignation from the board that had been his life's passion for nigh on six years. Of course, he's not so uncouth as to dance a jig on the grave of the previous ExO, but things do seem to be taking a turn for the interesting. And a lot can happen in three days. "Excellent, Ms. Jabs." He turns to Beatrix, giving her a deep bow, "Your Highness. My sincerest apologies for the events that you had to witness tonight. Rest assured, most Direx board meetings are not so...passionate." Of course, this hasn't been true of late, as she knows all too well. Smitherbodkins then bends down, reaching forward to retrieve his fallen hat from underneath it. He somehow manages to move elegantly even in this awkward position. Rising once more, he places the hat atop his head, the finality of the gesture akin to Jabs' beating of the gavel. "Ladies? Shall we?" The pair of rosy-pink Twi'lek handmaidens didn't make it out of the room before hell broke loose; and all this time they have been cowering in a corner, awaiting a signal from their royal mistress. One of them appears to have been weeping into her twin sister's shoulder. When, at last, the signal comes, that discreet lifting of a specific lacquered fingernail, as clear as a siren to those who have been trained to watch for it, they come forward and assist Beatrix in rising and stepping onto her firebug platforms. Though she has been kneeling all this time, her back ramrod-straight, she isn't the least bit stiff; her movements flow just as gracefully as when she entered the room. She pauses in her stately progress as she draws near the charismatic little figure of Miranda Jabs -- so unlike her, they might have been purposefully designed as opposites. The admiration and the mischief which have been welling up in her all through the rather free-form board-meeting can no longer be denied. "Congratulations might be a trifle premature," she opines, "but not good wishes." And she alights from her cumbersome footwear, and swoops down in a cloud of alien perfume to brush a teasing kiss across the soon-to-be-ExO's lips.